


Losing Battle

by veronamay



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Emotional Baggage, F/M, Not Beta Read, Post Season 6, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-28
Updated: 2007-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Dean's half her age and so far off-limits he might as well be in a different country, and besides, she loves Luke, right?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://dean-revolution.livejournal.com/profile)[**dean_revolution**](http://dean-revolution.livejournal.com/). Fairly substance-free. Unbeta'd.

There's music pounding heavy and loud, vibrating up through the floorboards and the walls. There's low lighting, flashing strobes and it's hard to see who's who in the brief flashes of bright. There's a steady flow of alcohol coming from the bar, and there's no sign of Luke anywhere.

Lorelai loves this party.

Miss Patty's studio is decked out with movie posters and playbills; reels of film dangle from the ceiling on fishing line, and vintage hand-cranked cameras sit around the room, near popcorn carts and usherettes selling Milk Duds and Red Vines. Lane is handling the music, which means it's good; Kirk is monitoring the punch, which means it's completely spiked. Lorelai's cannibalised one of Rory's Chilton uniforms – the skirt is hiked up to her thighs, she's wearing knee socks and Mary Janes, her hair is in pigtails and she's had just enough to drink to feel a little ... naughty.

Of course, there's nobody here to help her out in that department – the Gilmore Curse having struck for the third and possibly final time – so Lorelai's wandering aimlessly around the studio, weaving in and out of couples on the dance floor, looking for a place to sit and drown her sorrows a little more. She wishes Rory were here so they could share their misery, but Logan's calling tonight so Rory's living the cliché, sitting by the phone on Saturday night waiting for a boy to call. Lorelai wants to complain that she taught her better than that, but given Logan's an ocean away and a call home is no small thing to fit into his work schedule, it's kind of hard to bitch about it. Besides, she likes the kid. He's not ideal, but he's good to Rory and she seems happy. Lorelai is learning to be content with that.

Truth be told, she still half-expects to see Dean with Rory whenever she turns around too quickly. It's weird to see Logan's blond hair and charming smile instead of Dean's lanky frame and quiet grin. Lorelai wonders sometimes how much of that is habit and how much is misplaced longing. _He looks like Christopher_ , she'd said once, and while that isn't strictly true anymore, the feeling behind it still is. Seeing Rory and Dean together had been like seeing herself and Chris before Real Life smacked her in the face with a pregnancy test and told her she'd look great as a maid.

Dean isn't around much anymore. He still lives with his folks, doing carpentry work on building sites in Stars Hollow and Bridgeport, his plans for college permanently stalled. He doesn't go out much, keeps to himself and whatever friends he makes on the job. That's as far as the grapevine goes. Lorelai hasn't pushed for more than that; she's not sure where 'casual interest' stops and 'stalking' begins, especially when the stalkee is her daughter's ex. She just – she _misses_ him. They've always gotten along, even when there was trouble in Rory-land. It feels kind of disloyal, but Lorelai sometimes thinks Rory never saw the best of Dean. It isn't that he never showed her; more that she never really looked.

Not that Lorelai's thought about looking. Dean's half her age and so far off-limits he might as well be in a different country, and besides, she loves Luke, right?

Right?

The more she thinks about that, the more she wonders. She knows she loves Luke; she's just not sure if she _loves_ Luke. There's been so much waiting and pining and frustration, she honestly doesn't know what she'd do if Luke proclaimed himself ready to get married tomorrow. But since that's about as likely as Elton John getting caught in bed with Paris Hilton, Lorelai figures that's her answer right there.

God, she sure knows how to pick her men. Not.

The bar looms in front of her. Lorelai downs another cup of punch and takes one for the road – in this case, the next circuit of the room. Her search for a quiet alcove is fruitless, unlike the punch, which has a ridiculous number of glâce cherries floating in it. There are couples canoodling in every available space on the walls; no room for the thirtysomething single mom with a fire in her belly and no-one to tend it anyway. And wow, that is possibly the most pathetic thought she's ever had, but she's almost too drunk to care. Chris is gone, Max is gone, Luke might as well be gone, and it's just Lorelai and Paul Anka the dog, rattling around in her renovated-for-two house with a ton of extra space they don't need. At least Paul Anka loves her, but that might just be because she controls the kibble.

Pity party, table for one.

She wonders if Dean's this lonely all the time. Wonders if he sits at his window and stares out into the night, regretting and reliving and wishing for a second chance.

_Oh, for God's sake. Could I be more melodramatic?_

Lorelai shakes her head to get rid of all the gloopy sad thoughts weighing it down, and bumps into someone mid-step. She stumbles into a hard warm body; her punch goes flying across the room and she almost takes a header until hands the size of Alaska circle her wrists and keep her from falling into God-knows-what on the floor.

"Are you okay?"

It's Dean.

Of course it is. She's just been picturing him lovestruck and heartsick, wasting away for want of his one true love, so of _course_ he's standing right in front of her looking relaxed and healthy and ... wow, really big. And, uh, tall. And, uh, yeah.

Off-limits. Totally, totally off-limits.

"Dean!" She looks up – and up – and up and smiles, probably too much. "Hey, stranger. How are—"

She stops then, because she's had maybe three too many cups of punch and it takes a second for her to realise what she's looking at.

Weather-beaten fedora: check.

Torn, dusty white button-down: check.

Beat-to-hell brown leather jacket: check.

Moleskins and hobnail boots: check.

Leather knapsack, slung diagonally across acres of muscled chest: check.

Well-oiled whip, coiled snug and dangling from one lean hip: check.

Dean is. Dean. Is. He's.

Oh, God.

"Lorelai?" Dean's peering down at her, head tilted. "Did you hit your head?"

"Hot," she blurts out, and slaps a hand over her mouth. Dean's forehead creases in puzzlement; she thinks fast, and adds, "It's really, um, hot in here. I'm gonna, uh. Go. Outside."

She edges past Dean toward the double doors, almost falling through them in her hurry to get out. It's blessedly dark, with a chill in the air to take the edge off the heat in her cheeks. Lorelai goes into the shadows away from the doors, leans back against the wall. 'My Sharona' vibrates through the wood, and Lorelai feels like an idiot. He's twenty-one, for God's sake. Never mind that she's always had a _major_ crush on Indiana Jones. Never mind that he looks big enough to climb and good enough to eat. Dean's half her age and there's way too much baggage there and Rory would _kill_ her, and really, there comes a time when a woman just has to say 'no' to being the number one topic of conversation around town.

"Hey." Something brushes her arm, and Lorelai looks up. Dean draws his hand back, smiling uncertainly. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yes! Of course," Lorelai says, too quickly. "I'm just, you know. Getting too old to party all night. Can't remember where I left my walking frame."

"I find that hard to believe," Dean replies. He smiles again, warmer this time, and his eyes travel over her from head to foot in a way that makes the breath catch in her throat. It's quick, no more than a second; then Dean sticks his hands in his pockets and ducks his head, and she wonders if she's imagining things. "So, uh. How've you been?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. Working, sleeping, planning world domination." She smiles when he chuckles, feels less awkward. "I kind of expected to see you around before now, actually."

"How so?"

"The renovations on my house." Lorelai shrugs one shoulder. "Tom was the contractor, and I thought maybe ..."

"Ah." Dean nods, his smile turning tight, guarded. "He offered, but I said no. I thought it'd be – I mean, after everything that's happened—"

"Dean, no." Lorelai pushes off the wall, takes a step toward him. "I told you once before, whatever happens with you and Rory has nothing to do with you and me. Remember?"

He looks at her sideways. "That was a long time ago."

"Nothing's changed."

"A lot's changed, Lorelai." Dean shakes his head. "Too much."

He sounds resigned, a little bitter, and something in Lorelai twists at hearing it. She knows that Dean is as much to blame as Rory for the way things ended between them, but she can't help but think that Dean's paid enough for his mistakes.

"Dean, listen to me." She steps forward again, puts a hand on his arm. "I like you. You don't have to avoid me because of Rory. I can't say it any plainer than that." She squeezes warm leather and hard muscle, tries not to notice it. "Okay?"

Dean's laugh is a little less warm, layered with cynicism.

"Well, at least the _entire_ town doesn't hate me this time." His mouth twists, not a smile, something she's never seen on his face before. "Good to know."

"Hey," she says carefully, watching him. "You know me. I never did like to follow the crowd. Just because you and Rory broke up—"

"... doesn't mean you and I did. I remember," he finishes for her, and the not-smile turns into a real smile for a second. "I appreciate the thought, Lorelai."

He steps away, settling his hat on his head. Lorelai gets the feeling he's dismissing her, that her words aren't really sinking in, and she doesn't like it.

"Wait a minute." She grabs for his arm again, gripping a little harder this time. "I mean it, Dean. You can always talk to me."

Dean looks at her hand on his arm, then into her eyes. Lorelai blinks at what she sees in his.

"No," he says, almost gently. "I can't."

He takes her hand off his arm and squeezes it, and leans down to kiss her cheek. She inhales when he draws near, involuntary, because he's never done that before, and it feels like crossing a line. It feels too close. It feels dangerous.

It feels good.

Lorelai breathes him in, and Dean goes still, lips still hovering near her skin, breath ghosting over her neck. She shivers a little but doesn't move away, wondering what the hell she's doing. Wondering what Dean's doing. Wondering what they're doing here, together.

"Cold?" he asks, barely more than a whisper. He's still holding her hand.

Lorelai swallows. Tells herself to be sensible for once in her life, because this is her daughter's ex-boyfriend and he's _married_ for God's sake, and she's not supposed to still be making mistakes like this.

_Tell him you're freezing. You're going back inside._

"No." She breathes in again, deeper, swaying a fraction closer. "No, I'm not cold at all."

Dean's hesitation is palpable. Lorelai can feel him wavering, and the breath stops in her chest as she waits to see what they'll do.

"Lorelai," Dean says, low and soft, like he's tasting it. "Lorelai, we—"

"She never deserved you," Lorelai blurts, fingers squeezing his. "I want to slap myself, but she _didn't_ , Dean, she didn't know what she had with you and it makes me so crazy I—"

She can't finish her sentence. She can't say a word because Dean is shoving her against the wall of the studio and stepping in between her parted knees, his hands braced above her head and his mouth ... oh, God, his mouth is making her ache. He's staring down at her, not quite pressing into her body, waiting for a signal.

She doesn't know whether to give it or not.

"Do me a favour, Lorelai." Dean's eyes glint in the darkness. "Shut up."

He's kissing her before she can even think about a reply. Hot, slow, deep kisses that reach deep down into her gut, twisting everything inside her and demanding a response. Dean is restrained, gentle almost, mouth soft and coaxing, but under that she can feel him vibrating, keeping himself in check. She thinks that this must be how he kisses - _kissed_ \- Rory, and anger flares. She bites him, a sharp nip that makes him jerk, and he pulls away. Lorelai cocks one hip and stares at him, challenging, one hand coming up to grab a fistful of his shirt.

"Do _me_ a favour, Dean," she says, and wets her lips. "Don't treat me like a virgin. I haven't been a virgin in a very – long – time."

There's a beat of silence, and she thinks she's gone too far.

Then Dean's crowding her against the wall for real, one heavy thigh pressing between hers until she's practically riding him, and she's so wet she can feel herself soaking the fabric of his pants. Dean lays open-mouthed kisses on her neck, teeth scraping over delicate skin, hands sliding down over her shoulders and breasts. That first touch makes her lightheaded, because it's _not_ gentle anymore; he's almost ripping her white blouse open, gripping her tie and yanking her in for a kiss that threatens to melt her knees. Then he's letting her go and her head thunks against the wall, and he's flicking open the front clasp of her bra.

Cold air hits her, pebbling her nipples and raising gooseflesh; a moment later Dean's hands are on her skin, big and warm and slightly rough, and the shiver in her spine spreads all over her body. He cups a breast in each hand, thumbs rubbing over her nipples until they tingle and she's biting her lip to keep quiet. Then his head dips and she feels the softness of his hair on her chest and the wet heat of his mouth, and her knees really do give out this time. She grabs his shoulders for support, nails digging in. Dean doesn't pause; he just grabs her hips and hitches her up on his leg, rocking into her in rhythm with his mouth suckling her breast. Lorelai opens her eyes and looks down, seeing shining brown hair against pale skin and her skirt rucked up around her hips, legs splayed wide around Dean's thigh, and she feels like a slut.

She leans down, nuzzling his hair, rubbing her cheek against him like a cat.

"Fuck me," she whispers close to his ear.

His hands tighten on her hips and he presses her harder into the wall, shifting so she can feel the hard length of his cock against her inner thigh. Lorelai puts a hand on him there, shaping, learning him through cloth; Dean makes a noise halfway between a moan and a growl and pushes into her hand, and really, baggage or not, issues or not, if she doesn't have him right here and now Lorelai's going to die.

She starts working on his belt, fingers shaking and clumsy, the danger of discovery adding to her urgency. Dean's pushing her (Rory's, oh _God_ shut up) skirt up further, hand sliding over her naked thigh and under her panties, two fingers plunging deep. Lorelai bucks, exhaling on a whimper, because his hands are _huge_ and two fingers feels like she's already full. Dean fingers her like he's got all the time in the world, his other hand firm under her ass, holding her pinned up and against the wall until she gets his boxers out of the way and his cock is lying heavy in her hand.

And they can't. They can't do this. Lorelai feels sick with the knowledge, because Dean's looking at her with eyes gone dark and desperate, but he's shaking his head and she's got nothing in her purse, and neither of them are stupid enough to do this without protection. They're stuck, wanting and needy, but if they stop now this is where it'll end, and no matter what comes of it Lorelai does not want that to happen.

"Come on," she breathes, clenching around his hand, still between her thighs. "We'll work around it." There are ways, after all.

She can see Dean starting to think, and she's scared; she closes her hand around his cock and strokes once, twice. Three times, and he's pushing into her hand, and Lorelai's tilting her hips to give him access and he's three fingers deep, rubbing her clit and burying his face between her breasts as they stroke and jerk and push. He's panting against her skin, making quiet sounds that aren't quite words, and it doesn't take long before Lorelai's convulsing around his fingers, toes curling in her Mary Janes while her body shudders, pleasure flooding her and leaving her limp and sated in his hold.

Dean gathers her against him and holds her, chest heaving, still hard in her hand. Lorelai can't make herself speak, can't do anything but lie there for a moment, spread over him while her head stops spinning. Then she's sliding off his leg and down to the ground, cold wood harsh on her knees as she reaches up to grab his hips.

"Lorelai ..." Dean begins, but she doesn't give him the chance to say no. She leans in and licks a warm stripe along the side of his cock, and his voice cracks and dies. Lorelai grins into the skin of his hip, and then goes to town.

It doesn't take long. Dean's already three-quarters there, and Lorelai's _very_ good at blowjobs; Christopher always told her she had a multi-talented mouth. She puts it to good use now, using every trick she's learned. She wants to show Dean the difference between fucking a girl and fucking a woman, and if she doesn't explore the reasons behind that desire it's no-one's business but hers. Besides, she likes it; likes the musky smell of him and the way he feels on her tongue, the way he twitches under her hands and groans when she opens wide and lets him bump against the back of her throat. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, as if he's afraid to touch her. That's sweet, and it makes her want to blow the top of his head off. It's barely a minute before he's babbling a disjointed warning, and Lorelai pulls away and jerks him hard, her other hand on his balls, watching as he goes rigid and comes a good three feet up the wall.

She feels wet again just watching, and she can't blame it on the punch anymore.

Dean wavers on his feet for a second, then steadies himself and pulls her up. Lorelai busies herself dusting off her knees and trying to button her shirt; it's really getting cold out here now. She realises that Dean's still fully dressed, and she feels like a slut. It's a different feeling the second time around.

"Hey."

Dean's hand is under her chin, forcing her to look at him. Lorelai gives up trying to dress and crosses her arms, meeting his gaze with difficulty.

"Guess I can't really blame it on the rain," she says, trying to smile. "Never worked for Milli Vanilli."

Dean's tucked his cock back into his boxers and zipped up, and he looks completely respectable again. Well. Respectable and hot, because the Indiana Jones thing hasn't changed except now he's all tousled and flushed and rumpled, and she really needs to stop thinking about that now or they're just going to end up back where they started, which come to think of it isn't such a bad idea, really, and—

"You're thinking too hard," Dean says, and she blinks, realises he's grinning. Not an awkward how-do-I-get-away smile, or a what-the-hell grimace, but an actual, honest-to-God patented Dean Forester grin, the kind that made Lorelai look twice the first time she ever saw him. The one that made her go into denial for almost six years.

"You've got the wrong girl, mister," she says. "I'm usually the one who doesn't think at all. That's how I end up in situations like this."

Dean's grin fades, and Lorelai wants to kick herself.

"Case in point. The defence rests." She grabs one of her pigtails and chews on the end for a second. "Look, Dean, I just – this is awkward, okay? I didn't – I never ..." She waves a hand between them. "I mean, Rory ..."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Don't hide behind Rory," he says. "She's not here, Lorelai. You are. If you want to call this a mistake, so be it, but don't use her as an excuse."

"Is it?" Lorelai asks without thinking.

"A mistake?"

She nods, heart beating fast. She has no idea what she's doing.

Dean sticks his hands in his pockets and looks away, jaw working. When he looks back at her, there's something hurting in his eyes. She has to stop herself from reaching out.

"I don't know." He rolls his shoulders, not quite a shrug. "A lot of stuff's happened, and there's you and Luke ..."

Lorelai flushes and bites her lip, because yeah, good point there. He knows how that feels.

"... but I keep thinking," Dean continues, and she looks up to see him grinning again, quiet and hopeful. "I always kind of wondered what would've happened if I'd seen you first."

Lorelai thinks about that, about where she was six years ago, and what she'd have done if she'd seen Dean outside of the context of 'Rory's boyfriend'. She remembers how Dean just _got_ her, right from the start, knew how she thought and how he fell into the rhythm of their lives with barely a ripple. Take Rory out of the equation, and ...

"Wow," she says, and Dean's grin gets wider. "I don't know if the town could've coped with that much of a scandal."

He steps in, runs a finger down from her lips to between her breasts and leaves it there, burning into her skin.

"Think they can handle it now?"

She considers. Imagines Luke's reaction, and thinks about that. Thinks about Rory, about Taylor, about Patty and Babette and oh God, her parents.

Thinks about Dean's touch raising prickles of heat all over her. Thinks of his body curling around her, his soft voice first thing in the morning, his quiet presence on the sofa at night.

"Race you home," she says, and takes off into the night.

Dean's laughter echoes behind her.

END


End file.
